


And Therefore I Have Sailed The Seas

by versaphile



Category: Merlin (TV), Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Magic, Multi, Romance, Sex Magic, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Arthur and Merlin travel to Medieval Persia. What do you do after you've fulfilled your destiny? Merlin doesn't know, but he tries to find out despite a cranky High King, a powerful Shah and his Queen, and his own untameable magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Therefore I Have Sailed The Seas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snowgrouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/gifts).



Basra lies before them, a jumbling coastline of brown stone houses stacked in piles along the water, interspersed with strange trees and spiky plants. Merlin wipes the salt and sweat from his face and stretches his legs in anticipation of land. He will be glad to be done with sailing, at least for a little while. He was starting to forget what it felt like to have the earth beneath his feet, or to sleep without the steady rocking of the waves. 

They had left Camelot with the first break of spring, leaving Princess Mithian in charge in their absence. They passed through Iberian lands to Gibraltar and then to Byzantium, where Arthur had spent a tense but respectful few days in private conference with the Emperor and his council. From there they sailed across the Mediterranean, landed in Alexandria and transferred to a new ship on the other side of the strait. They sailed around the broad Arabian peninsula, through the Arabian sea and into the narrow gulf.

No amount of balms had held off the sun. At first they had all burned, their fair Albion skin turned red and raw by the battering Mediterranean sunshine. Then as their burns faded, they were cured by the salty winds. By the end of the journey, even Merlin’s complexion had darkened and toughened like tanned deer hide. Arthur’s blond hair had been bleached even brighter by the unrelenting sun, and his blue eyes seemed bluer in the reflected light of the water.

The journey had been months long, and they were only at their final destination now at the end of summer. Back home, the harvest would be upon them, the first chill coming into the air at night, the apples red and heavy on the trees and the grain golden and ripe in the fields. Back home there would be bonfires, prayers to the land, and preparations for the long winter ahead. But here there was not the slightest hint of winter, only an endless summer that stretched on and on, baking them and the land in its heat.

They were not of the same flesh as they had been when they left. They had lived on strange foods and become imbued with the herbs and spices within them, with the oils and vinegars of the east, with the brine-cure of the waters. Everything felt amplified. Merlin’s magic was sodden and roiling with the strange magics of the foreign lands and foreign waters, and sometimes felt as if it was at last too big for his body to contain. He could not lie in a cot in the hold at night, but would spread himself upon the decking, limbs loose, and eyes fixed upon the unfamiliar and whirling stars above, his magic breathing in and out of him like a swollen tide.

He wonders, sometimes, if they have journeyed too far. If it will be possible to squeeze back into their lives after so much transformation. If his magic can ever be contained again, now that it so overwhelms him. Away from Camelot, away from the familiar and the grounding, he no longer recognises himself. And part of him wonders if that is for the best.

They had done it, all of it. United all of Albion under Camelot’s shield. Made allies of the Druids. Returned magic to the land. They had fulfilled their great destiny, and at the end of it all, Merlin had found himself at loose ends. In his official capacity, he had plenty to keep him busy: he advised his King, dealt with any magical disputes, tended the fertility of the land, scried against dangers, and even oversaw a sort of training program for natural warlocks, the same way Arthur did his Knights. No one was a powerful as he was, of course, but the land gave up its magic for a reason, and Merlin was the best placed to find those reasons.

And it was all... great. Fantastic, really. Everything he could have hoped for and more. So why does he ache inside, his heart like a bruise that refuses to fade? Why does he never quite feel all the joy he knows he should have? Why does he lie awake at night and feel utterly alone?

He only has to turn and look at Arthur, perched at the bow of the ship, to know the answers. Because Arthur is all of them.

It’s idiotic, endlessly idiotic. He should have been done with this a long time ago. He should have been done with it his first year in Camelot, when he was merely Arthur’s bumbling manservant and still reeling from the shock of his new life and his sudden destiny and the task of guarding a handsome, arrogant, danger-prone prince. Merlin should have shaken off his idiotic infatuation and focused on keeping Arthur and Camelot safe, focused on his destiny and not bowing under the weight of it all. And he had, mostly. He’d done it by giving everything for Arthur. He would give it all again and again, if he had to, no matter the consequences to himself. 

The hardest part, the part where he thought he’d ruined everything and that their destiny would fail, had been when he’d told Arthur about his magic. Uther had been dying from Odin’s assassin, and Merlin had been ready to do anything to spare Arthur the pain of his father’s death. It had been Gaius who surprised him, and said that if Merlin insisted on attempting to heal Uther, he had to do it honestly. Gaius would not risk Merlin becoming another Nimueh.

So Merlin had gathered every bit of courage he had, and had told Arthur the truth. That he had magic, that he _was_ magic. That he had lied to Arthur for nearly six years, and Arthur could hate him later if he wanted. That Merlin would accept any consequence that Arthur thought he deserved, but please let him do this one thing for him. Please let him help.

And Arthur had. He’d let Merlin try, even though it was obvious how furious he was, how betrayed. Merlin had gone to Uther’s bedside, feeling Arthur’s stare boring into him like a spear, and he had poured everything he had into healing Uther. He’d given _everything_ , and he’d failed, because he hadn’t thought to check. Because he hadn’t been careful enough, hadn’t anticipated Morgana’s counterspell charm. Uther would have died anyway, but it was Merlin’s magic that stopped his life. 

Arthur had every right to strike Merlin dead right then and there. There were times that Merlin wished he had, and spared him the pain that followed. Instead, Arthur cast him out, banished him to Gaius’ care, and refused to speak with him for months. They were the longest months of Merlin’s life, and the closest he ever came to giving up. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been executed or exiled. If anything, those fates would have been easier to bear than the unending silence that filled his days. If their paths crossed in the castle, Arthur would not look at him, would not speak to him, as if the only way Arthur could cope with the enormity of Merlin’s lies and failures was to simply pretend he didn’t exist. Near the end of it, Merlin was feeling so desperate that he had been close to building a pyre for himself in the courtyard, standing on it and setting himself ablaze. Just to spare Arthur the trouble, since Arthur wasn’t willing to do it himself.

It had been Gwen who talked Merlin down, Gwen who broke the prison of silence that so suffocated him. She came to him in his misery, so deep he couldn’t even cry, and held him and told him that things would work out between him and Arthur. That Arthur was mourning his father and dealing with his new responsibilities and that he would come to Merlin eventually, when he was ready, and they would be friends again. Merlin had shaken his head, said he didn’t see how, said forgiveness was impossible. 

But she had been right, in the end. Arthur had forgiven him. Had fired him as his manservant only to elevate him to his council. Merlin had found himself in the unexpected position of advisor to the King, on all matters but particularly magical ones. Arthur would take him out with the Knights and expect him to fight by their side, and not sneak his magic into the melee through falling branches and mysteriously heated swords. In time, they even became friends again, of a sort, able to joke with each other and share a companionable silence.

Through it all, Merlin loved him. His idiotic infatuation had long grown into something huge and heavy in his chest, impossible to remove or deny, but equally impossible to resolve. Arthur had married Gwen, as he was meant to, and she became his Queen, as she was meant to. Merlin endured, as he was meant to, and smiled genuinely for them, because he loved them and wanted them to be happy, even when he could not be.

By the third year of their marriage, their happiness faded. It became clear that Gwen could not give Arthur his heir. Merlin offered to help, to find some way to restore their fertility and give them the child they both craved, but Arthur refused and that was the end of it. Merlin would not become another Nimueh. Instead he watched helplessly as their disappointment tore them apart, the perfect couple dissolving into two unhappy people. And then into one unhappy king, as Gwen found refuge in the arms of her first love. Arthur had given permission for Lancelot to take her away, to make her happy, and they had gone.

After that, things moved quickly. Arthur threw himself fully into his duty, with Merlin equally fervent at his side. One by one the kingdoms surrounding Camelot fell, or were absorbed. Albion was united, and Arthur elevated to High King. Their enemies fell before them, and the Saxons were turned back. 

Their Golden Age had arrived, and their task was now to live in it, and find a way to thrive.

Perhaps they have no more destiny to fulfill. Perhaps this journey is the last they will take together. Perhaps the best thing will be for Merlin to surrender to the wildness of his magic, to let it take him away from the deep bruise of his heartbreak and Arthur’s sun-bleached hair and ocean eyes. Perhaps he will find some reason to stay in Basra, or to travel on alone into the lands beyond. He wants to shed his salt-cured skin, which feels tight and hot and strange. Wants to shed the pain he carries, now that destiny has lifted its weight from his shoulders. If Albion has no more need of him, there must be somewhere that does. When he was a boy in Ealdor, tiny and tightly bound, he had never imagined that the world was so wide, so limitless. He had escaped Ealdor for Camelot. Perhaps Camelot, too, can be left behind.

Even though they had provided no fixed date with the messages they sent ahead of them on their journey, their arrival is expected. Their boat has barely been tied off when an envoy arrives to greet them, and to welcome them to the hospitality of the palace. Merlin thinks of the stories that had brought them to this place, of the powerful wizard-king Jaffar ibn Yahya al-Barmaki who had conquered the mighty Abbasid Caliphate and made all of their lands his own. It is with Jaffar that Arthur seeks his greatest alliance, because of all the sorcerers of the known world, he is the only one to come anywhere close to Merlin’s equal, or to gain political power that rivals (and perhaps exceeds) Arthur’s own. The truth of Jaffar’s nature remains to be seen, but it’s obvious he has either a Seer’s foresight, or is an attentive scryer. 

Their retinue makes its winding way to the palace, where they are deposited in luxuriant rooms, lush with vibrant silks and soft cushions. Despite the heat outside, the rooms are blissfully cool, and Merlin sinks down onto his cushions with a long, long sigh. He can feel the phantom swaying of the waves beneath him, steady and unceasing, and falls into a shallow doze. His dreams are brief but full of the sea, of the rich loam of Camelot soil, of the sharp taste of spices in the open markets.

He’s woken by Arthur, who looks down at him with his ocean eyes, pink lips curved in a crooked smile against the dark tan of his face.

“Lazy as ever,” Arthur chides. “Come on, I want to use the baths, and you’re filthy.”

“ _I’m_ filthy?” Merlin says, taking Arthur’s hand and staggering to his feet. The solid ground still feels unsteady beneath his feet, his muscles used to movement that no longer comes. Arthur is just as unsteady, though he hides it better, his warrior nature making him more comfortable in his body than Merlin will ever be, even when his magic is placid as a mountain lake and not turbulent as a storm-tossed sea.

They strip down and sink into the steaming hot water. The ecstasy of it is almost sexual, the heat suffusing them down to the marrow. Merlin spells his breathing and sinks below the surface like a stone, letting the water take him completely. After a few long, blissful minutes, Arthur gives him a kick, and Merlin opens his eyes and surfaces.

“I don’t like it when you do that,” Arthur says, frowning.

Merlin just grunts, and splays back against the tile, closing his eyes again. He feels utterly boneless, and thinks he would quite like to stay this way for the rest of his days. “It’s even better than the Emperor’s baths,” he slurs, contented.

“It has its merits,” Arthur allows. “But far too fancy for everyday use. A king could grow soft with such luxury.”

Merlin chuckles. “I suppose you’d prefer a lukewarm tub in your chambers?”

Arthur lazily shrugs. “You always kept it hot.”

“Seems you were already soft from the luxury of my magic.” A swell of melancholy rises in Merlin’s chest, and he blinks against it, lets his eyes wander along the intricate designs on the walls, rich with expensive blues and greens. He finds himself comparing them to the pale stone and dark wood and endless Pendragon red that serves as Camelot’s palette. They strike him as equally sensuous, in utterly opposing ways.

Eventually, Arthur drags Merlin from the baths, commenting that if he doesn’t then Merlin will shrivel like dried fruit and then eventually dissolve or turn into a water nymph, and Arthur has no use for a water nymph in his court. They try out the perfumed creams, which Merlin eagerly takes to once he feels how they ease his tortured skin. Arthur gets his back for him, and he returns the favor, and they return to their rooms smelling of flowers, their skin soft as petals. Food is waiting for them, trays loaded with fresh fruits and spiced meats and other delights. Arthur smiles and his smile warms Merlin more than the hottest water. But all too soon the smile goes away again, back behind the clouds, leaving Merlin bereft.

“You must be on your guard,” Arthur cautions.

“You don’t trust Jaffar?”

“I do not know him enough to trust him. We have no idea of his true nature. The only things that are certain are that he is powerful and has ambition.” Arthur frowns at the walls, as if prying eyes lurk behind them, which they may well. “Can you, ah, feel anything?”

“Yes,” Merlin replies, abandoning the sweetmeat he’s been nibbling at. “Protection spells. Lots of them. He’s been scrying us, but I blocked him easily.”

A light blush pinks Arthur’s cheeks. “Good,” he says, firmly. “What else?”

“There’s no sense of ill intent,” Merlin says, probing delicately with his own magic. “He is powerful, but not as much as his reputation would have. His spells feel very... careful. Deliberate.”

“A tactician,” Arthur murmurs. “You could overpower him?”

Merlin nods. “It wouldn’t be a pleasant fight, if it came to it.”

“It never is. Nice to know I still have the most powerful sorcerer in the world,” Arthur says, and gives him a punch on the arm.

Merlin just rolls his eyes. He’s never really been comfortable with how powerful he is. It would be reassuring to find his limits, but after all this time he’s starting to suspect there aren’t any. Someone once told him that his magic draws directly from the earth itself, so that it's possible he may never run out. He can exhaust his physical body, exhaust his mind to the point of collapse, but as long as the earth and the elements hold magic, so will he.

“I’d prefer not to make an enemy of him,” Merlin says. They’ve had enough of enemies, with Morgana and Mordred and the High Priestesses that set themselves against Camelot in their revenge upon Uther.

“That’s why we’re here,” Arthur replies. “Better that we reach out to him now than wait for him to conquer his way through Byzantium and set himself against us.”

“You mean against me.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Arthur admits. “When you’re the best, those who want to prove themselves will seek you out. The stakes here are not those of a mere tournament.”

Merlin frowns, and wonders, not for the first time, if Albion would be safer without him. Without Merlin, Albion is merely an island outpost of a kingdom, safely away from the political machinations of the continent. Byzantium has its eyes fixed eastward, and to the west there is only the sea. Albion is mighty enough now to hold back the waves of would-be invaders, the Franks and Saxons and Norsemen. But if he leaves, his absence may be its own invitation. He can’t see a clear answer either way.

Merlin excuses himself for the night, and feels Arthur’s eyes upon him as he takes his leave. Judging him, weighing him, as he would any of his weapons and tools. Merlin is surely the most troublesome of his assets, and for all that Merlin has done for him, there have been losses, costs. Does the fulfillment of their destiny balance the scales? Arthur may have become High King without him, in the end. Merlin settles back onto the pillows, his thoughts a jumble of contradictions and worries, what-ifs and maybes. 

He knows that Arthur needs him. Merlin would have stayed by his side either way, but he knows that Arthur wants him to stay. The problem is that Merlin isn’t sure that’s enough for him, anymore. He doesn’t know if anything will be enough, and he’s realizing at last that for the first time in his life, he has to make the choice on his own behalf. And he doesn’t know what to do.

§

“If you had but asked,” Jaffar says, making his entrance all in blue, with a cape that trails and flutters in his wake. “I could have shortened your journey with flying horses.”

“A very generous offer, oh king of kings,” Arthur replies, smoothly, as if they hadn’t just been snuck up on in an obvious attempt to put them off their ease. “But we had business to conduct along the way.”

Jaffar greets them with a respectful bow, and a request to please, call him Jaffar. He’s an older man, his face lined but sharp with intellect. He has a thin moustache, heavy eyebrows, and a piercing blue gaze that Merlin can feel measuring them up. He exudes confidence, which could be as much a weakness as an asset. They bow back, and all three of them take their seats at the low table, settling on the cushions. A spread of fruit lies before them, but Merlin is the only one to sample from it. Arthur and Jaffar are locked in a stare-down, and Merlin decides that it would be for the best if he breaks the tension before things escalate.

“No need for horses,” Merlin says, cheerfully. “I could have dropped us here right from Camelot, but Arthur thought it would be rude.”

That gets their attention. Jaffar looks at him with renewed consideration, and Arthur cocks an eyebrow. It’s true that Merlin could have done just that, and in fact had pestered Arthur repeatedly throughout the months-long journey to let him please, _please_ let him carry them the rest of the way. But Arthur had stubbornly refused, saying that it was important that they take the full journey, that they needed to learn the lay of the land and the potentials and dangers in it, that they needed to make their way under their own steam as a show of Albion’s strength. Privately, Merlin believed it was because Arthur still didn’t trust his magic, didn’t trust Merlin not to ruin things and land them in the middle of the ocean or some other such nonsense.

The rejection of it stings, Merlin can’t pretend otherwise. And if he gets a bit of his own back around the bargaining table, it’s no less than Arthur deserves.

“Your sorcerer has such power, to carry men and supplies across thousands of miles at will?” Jaffar asks Arthur.

Arthur hesitates, and Merlin’s annoyance gets the better of him again. “ _His sorcerer_ can do all that and more.” Merlin has never been inclined to boasting, but annoying Arthur is one of the few pleasures left him. It can hardly hurt their position to let Jaffar know what he’s up against, anyway. 

“I see.” Jaffar temples his hands and taps his fingers to his lips, then straightens with a smile. “But I am being a terrible host. My guests must enjoy themselves before the arduous politics that await. Please, let me take you on a tour of my city. You must see all the jewels of Basra.”

“We must. And please, call me Merlin,” Merlin says, and smiles back.

“Merlin,” Jaffar says, and when he raises up from his bow, this time his eyes dance with amusement and speculation.

Arthur frowns at them both, and Merlin ignores him.

§

The tour starts in the palace, which is a masterpiece of architecture and Persian engineering. In contrast to the heavy stone of Camelot, the palace at Basra is airy and full of light. The climate is more amenable here, and there must be fewer battles to worry about; everywhere there are decorative gratings, open archways, and it seems that every wall is covered in some form of intricate art. There are endless rooms, similar to the ones they are quartered in, with expensive silks and soft cushions and low tables. They use a plentiful supply of oil lamps instead of the familiar tallow candles. It is a palace of luxury and status, and it’s evident that Jaffar takes great pride in every aspect of it.

They are flanked by guards as they make their way to the marketplace, but the people they pass seem more curious than afraid. The people of Camelot have largely adapted to the return of magic, but those who came of age during the height of the Great Purge still look upon Merlin with distrust. Merlin thinks about how nice it would be to not see fear in the eyes of those he tries to help. In this kingdom, no one is taught that magic is inherently evil.

The marketplace is predictably laden with goods. Basra has a heavy trade with the Silk Road, and Jaffar shows off the treasures that come their way from the far east. Ceramics, silks, jewelry, spices, even exotic beasts that remind Merlin of entries in Gaius’ ancient bestiaries. It’s the last that finally cracks Arthur’s stoicism, and he stares in open awe at the monstrous tiger that growls from its sturdy cage.

But it’s the library that finally takes Merlin’s breath away. It’s simply massive, for a start, loaded with books and scrolls from India, China, Greece. If they had merely contained a wealth of literature and science, he still would have been impressed. But so many of them are _magic_.

“Arthur, these--” Merlin said, choking up with awe as he reverently opens book after book. He’s never dreamed of so much knowledge. Surely here is everything lost in the Great Purge and more, the magical knowledge of centuries across all of civilisation. He can feel the low-level tingle of magical documents all through the shelves, feel the bright flares of ancient power. There is a lifetime’s worth of study here, several lifetimes’ worth at least.

All his life he has struggled to understand his magic, and no one has been able to give him all the answers he needs. Too many books and too many people have burned, and their knowledge scattered to the winds with their ashes. He thought it was all lost forever, but it’s here, it’s saved, and he clutches a heavy grimoire to his chest and there are tears in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, self-conscious at the strength of his reaction. He forces himself to put down the grimoire, even though it’s already all he can do to stop himself from clinging to the shelves like a child to its mother.

“You do not have such a library?” Jaffar asks, surprised.

“No,” Arthur says, before Merlin can reply. “There was a magical purge, many years ago. A great deal of knowledge was lost.”

“Then I am all the more impressed that Merlin has earned such power,” Jaffar says, giving Merlin a bow of respect.

“Don’t,” Merlin says, regretting his earlier boasting now. “Please, it’s nothing I’ve earned. There’s no need for that.”

“Merlin--” Arthur begins, cautioning him against revealing too much.

But Merlin has so rarely found anyone with access to such knowledge, who might truly understand what he is and how to calm his magic, which is even more agitated here, with such ancient power yearning to join with the roiling mix of magics already inside him. 

“I was born with magic,” Merlin continues, not sure if he’s coming across as excited or desperate, and not entirely caring. “I’m not like you, a learned sorcerer. I don’t need spells, I don’t need...” He stops himself, feeling suddenly too raw, too exposed. He can feel Arthur’s concern, feel Arthur watching him, poised to step in. Merlin steps back, and his arm brushes against the ancient books. A shiver of their power runs through him, making him startle.

“Perhaps we should move on,” Arthur says, already pressing a hand to Merlin’s back to urge him along.

Jaffar nods, concerned and curious but recognizing now is not the time to pry. “Let me take you to the gardens,” he offers, leading them away from the library. “They are full of beauty and tranquility.”

“Sounds perfect,” Arthur says, practically shoving Merlin out of the library. He casts a suspicious look over his shoulder, as if he expects the books to fly after them and attack them. Merlin feels rather the same way, except he welcomes the image as much as he fears it.

§

There’s a woman already in the garden when they arrive. She’s reading a book -- a normal book with absolutely no magic whatsoever -- but sets it down and rises to greet them with a warm smile.

“May I introduce my Queen,” Jaffar says, taking her hand and kissing it. He looks upon her with open adoration, and she returns it. “My Queen, this is King Arthur of Albion, and the great sorcerer Merlin.”

“I am honored to meet such illustrious men,” she says, flattering them. She must sense Arthur’s concern, because she immediately goes to Merlin’s side. “Oh, but you look pale. You must sit down. Has something disturbed you?”

“It’s nothing,” Merlin says, but lets himself be coddled. The Queen sits him down where she had been reading, and the soft touch of her hand to his cheek makes him offer up a small smile. She presses a freshly poured cup of tea into his hands and urges him to sip. She must not have been in the garden long, because it’s still hot. The tea is fragrant and rich, and fragments of leaves swirl and settle to the bottom of the cup.

“Thank you,” Merlin tells her, as his magic settles down to a tolerable level again. “I’m all right, honestly. It was just a bit of a shock.”

“Albion does not have a great library of magic, as we do,” Jaffar explains, gently. “If it is your desire, Merlin, you may take full advantage of your time here. You are welcome to stay as long as you like, and my entire library is at your command. Even the most powerful of books, which are kept away from the main collection for safety.”

“Most powerful?” Merlin echoes, eyes wide at the thought. He feels starved for the books at just the idea of them, even as he is afraid of what they might do to him, might do _for_ him. Despite the softening creams from the baths, his skin feels tight and hot again, as if it has been pulled taut from trying to contain his power.

“Extremely powerful,” Jaffar purrs, and Merlin swallows, suddenly salivating at the thought of pressing himself against the ancient books, of their power pulsing through him. He meets Jaffar’s eyes, and sees the recognition in them, and the shock of desire. Merlin flushes and looks away, and focuses on his tea.

“My dear,” Jaffar says to the Queen, “King Arthur and I have a great deal to discuss. Would you be so kind as to ensure Merlin has everything he needs? You shall have lunch here, and we will convene together for dinner.”

Arthur doesn’t look happy about leaving Merlin alone, but the sooner they deal with the matters of state, the sooner they can leave. He gives Merlin a silent look that says _be careful_ and _be **careful**_ , and follows Jaffar out of the garden.

§

The Queen, it turns out, is no stranger to magic, and not merely because she married a powerful sorcerer. She had a sheltered childhood, and would have had a sheltered life if not for Jaffar, who fell in love with her from afar and spirited her away from her father.

“He has given me the world,” she tells him, and her fervency would concern Merlin if not for how obviously genuine their love is for each other. “I was struggling in my cage, and he set me free. I have been by his side ever since, and we have carried each other through victories and defeats. I have learned much about magic, so that there will be no barriers between us.”

“Sounds lovely,” Merlin says, trying not to feel jealous. He’s never expected Arthur to involve himself directly with magic. Arthur doesn’t have a magical bone in his body, even though he was born of a powerful spell. It has always been obvious that Morgana’s magic came from her mother’s side. But it would be nice to be able to share it, for Arthur to _want_ to understand, even if Merlin often doesn’t have the words to explain it himself.

To have no barriers between them. The thought presses on the bruise that is Merlin’s heart, and sharpens the ache.

“But my words have made you unhappy,” the Queen says, seeing the frown that Merlin is unable to hide. She touches his arm like a friend, and it reminds him of Gwen, how she would read his moods and comfort him. He lost a close friend when Arthur lost his wife. He lost Lancelot as well, who was never much for emotional gestures but was fantastic at listening and being understanding when Merlin complained to him about Arthur this or Arthur that. Gwaine has taken the brunt of it in their absence, and even though he is endlessly tolerant of Merlin’s moods, Gwaine is more likely to try to silence Merlin’s tongue with drink than be a pillar of patient support.

“No,” he tells her. “It’s just...” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles.”

“If we are to become friends, that is exactly what you should do,” she says. “Is that not what your King and mine seek to achieve?”

Merlin shrugs. “I think mostly Arthur wants to avoid trouble. If it wasn’t for me, Jaffar would hardly have much reason to go to Albion.”

“But here you are. Life makes choices for us, and it is not always clear if they are for the best until long after they are made.”

“Story of my life,” Merlin sighs.

“I love stories,” she says, smiling. “Tell me yours.”

And to Merlin’s surprise, he does.

By the time they must return to the palace for dinner, Merlin has talked himself hoarse, and feels a hundred times better for it. The Queen proves to be an avid listener, soaking up Merlin’s tales of destiny and betrayal and love with great eagerness. Merlin skips the parts of the story that are not his to tell, or that could put Arthur’s negotiations at risk. It’s a relief to simply talk to someone who knows nothing of his life, who has no expectations of him or his choices.

He hesitates before he tells her about his magic. About how it only grows more powerful with time, but he has never found anyone able to train him properly, and the little knowledge he does have is piecemeal at best. About how every step across foreign lands and waters has filled him with new and unfamiliar power, and how the library is both utterly tempting and full of magic that makes his situation worse.

“What does your King think of this?” she asks.

“Arthur doesn’t know,” Merlin admits. “He doesn’t trust magic, doesn’t understand it. I didn’t want to worry him.”

“But he trusts you, does he not?”

Merlin shrugs. “He does. Mostly. But magic has hurt him. It took his parents from him, his sister. Some of that was my fault. I understand why he cannot accept it. He will use it because he has to, and that is all.”

She hugs him, then, and he does not resist.

§

Dinner is a feast like nothing Merlin has ever seen, full of foods that Merlin has never known of, flavors that surprise his tongue. Jaffar has spared no expense, eager to impress and tempt them. Jaffar’s council and others of his court join them, and all are plied with heavy wines. Merlin drinks more than he ought, happy to let the wine loosen his limbs, numb his aches and blanket his thoughts. His mind has raced all day, and he wants to simply _be_ for a while. He smiles at Arthur and raises his cup to him, and Arthur gives an amused shake of his head and raises his own back.

They do not sit at a long table, as they would in Camelot. Instead there is a golden platform for the Shah, his Queen, and his two guests of honor, while the rest sit scattered around them on cushions, sitting or lounging with their plates upon the floor. The Queen and Jaffar sit together, and Merlin and Arthur opposite. Merlin has not missed the significance of being the one seated across from Jaffar. It’s not exactly a slight towards Arthur, but it does imply to the court at large that it is Merlin’s power that is the purpose of their visit, the reason for their celebration. 

All evening, he has a close view of the Shah and his Queen, and sees at last how they are. They are close as any two could be, heads often together for the sharing of some private whispers or amusements. If envy makes Merlin drink his wine a little faster, well, so be it. He distracts himself by listening to the unfamiliar songs of the minstrels, and watching the dancers sway and whirl.

“Your councilors tell me you are a man of hidden skills,” Arthur says, as the desserts are brought out.

“Oh yes,” Jaffar says, pleased by Arthur’s interest. “Magic is a fine thing, but strength has many measures. Clockwork is my avocation. It requires great patience, great precision. Would you like a demonstration?”

Arthur smiles. “If you please.”

Jaffar beckons a servant, and soon a tray is brought to them, and handed to Jaffar, who sets it down on the center of the platform. He removes the silk covering, and reveals a set of metal beetles, each about the size of a small apple, sparkling with precious gems.

“I used to specialise in larger creatures,” Jaffar confides, stroking the back of one of the beetles. “But lately I prefer the challenge of the small. Please, take one.”

Arthur does. He turns it in his hand, inspecting it, and Merlin peers at it. Arthur nudges the wings, and they slide apart, revealing an intricate array of gears. The wings slide back when he releases them.

“Very beautiful,” Arthur says, impressed. “Can you make them move?”

“Better,” Jaffar says, proudly. He holds out his hand and murmurs, and Merlin feels the flare of magic. The little beetle in Arthur’s hand springs to life. Its jeweled shell lifts, and gossamer wings unfold, and with a whir of its gears it rises from Arthur’s hand to dance upon the air. The other beetles follow suit, and circle before them in performance.

“They’re flying!” Arthur says, delighted. He elbows Merlin. “ _Mer_ lin, why don’t you do things like that?”

Merlin gives him a look. “You’re the one always telling me not to behave like a performing fool.”

“This is a lot more impressive than you juggling a few eggs,” Arthur retorts, clearly having taken too much wine himself. “Besides, I was only mad because you were pretending to be something you’re not.”

Merlin has no answer to that. It’s so unexpected for Arthur to admit his feelings, even for something so trivial as Merlin magicking himself the ability to juggle. Maybe he should ask Jaffar for a supply of his wine to take with them back to Camelot. Who knows what he could pry out of Arthur with it?

“We would love to see your magic,” says the Queen, warmly. “If the request does not offend.”

“Not at all,” Merlin assures her. He holds out his hand, and silently commands the beetles to land upon it. Jaffar leans in, all interest, and Merlin draws them to his chest and covers them with his other hand. When he releases them, they are no longer metal and gem, but wholly alive. The Queen exclaims with delight as they fly up, clumsy from their size, their wings a blur in the lamplight. She catches one and holds it gently, and it wriggles its feet in confusion.

“You can create true life,” Jaffar breathes, eyes wide with amazement.

Merlin shrugs, shy and pleased. He sees a few stray poppy seeds on the platform, and touches his finger to them. Green, fuzzy leaves spread and curl around his hand, rising up like ferns, followed by a cluster of tall stems, each with a heavy bud. Merlin curls his hand around them, and hands the Queen a bouquet of rich red poppies, freshly bloomed. She takes them with awe. The beetle, finding itself abandoned, flies up onto one flower, and settles on the dark center.

Arthur stares at Merlin, and then at Jaffar, who is staring at Merlin with open reverence. Arthur must realise that with Merlin’s small acts, the balance of power has swung decidedly in their favor. Their alliance will be a favorable one for Albion. 

“I can turn them back,” Merlin offers. “The beetles. I hate to ruin all your hard work.”

“If you please,” Jaffar says. He plucks the beetle from the poppy, and hands it back to Merlin, who has already coaxed down the other two. It only takes a moment, and then they are still in his hand, returned to their handmade state. Jaffar takes them back and inspects each in turn, then sets them back on their tray.

“You spoke no spells,” Jaffar says, perhaps in recollection of Merlin’s admission in the library.

Merlin nods. 

Thankfully, that is the moment they are served dessert, providing a much needed distraction. They eat in weighted silence. Merlin stares at his plate, and ignores how everyone else is trying not to stare at him. He’s never been keen on being the center of attention, no matter how much he’s grown used to it in his official capacity.

When dessert is finished, Jaffar turns to Arthur. “High King,” he says, obsequiously. “Please allow me the honor of a walk alone with your sorcerer.”

Arthur’s lips press thin with discomfort, but it would not do their negotiations any good to deny Jaffar such a request in front of his court. Merlin gives him a twitch of a smile, and Arthur nods his permission.

“I thank you for your generosity,” Jaffar says, bowing as he rises, and gesturing for Merlin to join him.

The evening air is pleasant, and sweet with the perfume of nighttime flowers. Merlin is glad to be away from the noisy banquet and its prying eyes. He feels like a curiosity and a symbol of power, put on display like the tiger in the marketplace. He’s also privately relieved to be away from Arthur, who of late is constantly either worried about him or for him, and either way it rankles. There was a time when Merlin took care of both of them without Arthur being aware of it, and it didn’t matter if Arthur thought little of him. To work side by side with Arthur, to have Arthur aware of his power and devotion and still not to be trusted... 

“You are elsewhere?” Jaffar asks.

Merlin starts guiltily. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. I was just thinking.”

“You have a great deal on your mind,” Jaffar guesses, or knows. “You and your King, you are at odds?”

Merlin shrugs. 

“Does he fear you? Does he think you will take his throne?”

Merlin smiles at the idea. “He knows me better than that.”

“You have a power greater than any throne,” Jaffar says, sagely. “I do not have your strength, yet I could not submit to any man’s will.”

“Or woman’s?” Merlin guesses.

“Ah, but you have found my secret,” Jaffar smiles. “She bears me in the palm of her hand.”

“I’m happy for you,” Merlin says, and means it. It’s what he wished for Gwen and Arthur to have, all those years ago. “It is good to see such love exists in this world.”

“She is precious to me,” Jaffar says, distant with adoration. “She is the other half of my soul. It is only with her that I am whole.”

The familiarity of the phrase catches Merlin by surprise, and he has to fight not to reveal his reaction. “The half that makes you whole,” he says, throat tight.

“Yes,” Jaffar says, and turns his piercing gaze upon Merlin. “Is that what you seek?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It has already been denied me.”

“Denied you?” Jaffar laughs. “I have travelled the world, and never met any man or creature with such power. Even the greatest of genies, who laugh as they bend the world to their masters’ wishes. Nothing could be denied you.”

“You don’t understand,” Merlin says, his anger leaking out. 

“My Queen tells me you live as a genie for your King. You deny yourself for him. Enslave yourself on his behalf.”

Merlin blushes. “It isn’t like that,” he insists. 

“I could not free a genie, for in his cruelty he would strike me down. But if you wish, you may be free of that which binds you.”

Merlin goes still. “You will _not_ hurt him,” he says, coldly. His eyes flare with power, and he does not hide the threat implicit in them.

Jaffar steps back, his eyes wide. “I humbly apologise,” he says, bowing his head in respect. “I did not intend my words as a threat. I bear no ill will against your High King.”

“Good,” Merlin says, making it clear that he will defend Arthur against any threats, intended or otherwise.

But Jaffar smiles, and slaps Merlin on the back. “I believe I understand you now,” he says, fondly. “I hope you will still accept my gift for you this night.”

“Gift?” Merlin asks, warily.

“Come, come,” Jaffar says, taking Merlin’s hand and pulling him along. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture, and firm enough to brook no refusal without causing offense. They stop in front of an unassuming door, and Merlin realises they are near the library. He can feel the buzz of magic even from here.

“Few know of the existence of this room, and even fewer are allowed within,” Jaffar says, unlocking it with an ornate key. Even as the door opens, Merlin knows what is inside. He can feel the protective wards, heavy around the room, and the books, oh the _books_.

The secret library. It _reeks_ of magic, so ancient and strong it makes Merlin’s eyes water. He doesn’t know how Jaffar can stand it, but it must be because his magic, for all his strength, is like that of a child compared to Merlin’s. It would not affect him the same way. 

“Do not be afraid,” Jaffar says, when Merlin resists his pull towards the doorway.

“I can’t go in there,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “It’s not safe.”

“Safe is for the dull,” Jaffar snaps, and Merlin sees the fire in his eyes. Such a fire would drive a man to conquer a mighty empire, to hunt and claim a queen. “Do not lie to me and tell me you do not hunger for this.”

“I do, but--”

“But nothing.” Jaffar is fervent now, and Merlin doesn’t understand why he cares so much. Why he _insists_. Jaffar steps closer, until Merlin has his back against the wall, and Jaffar’s eyes are inches from his own, wide and staring, as if to force his will through sight alone.

“Are you not a man?” Jaffar says, softer now. “Do you not _want_? Do you not take what is before you, when it is yours?”

“You don’t understand,” Merlin pushes back.

Jaffar raises a hand, and strokes Merlin’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “I know unhappiness. I know sorrow. I know pain. You suffer from all of these ailments, yet you run from their cure.”

“Is that what you offer?” 

“I hope that I can. It is not right for a creature such as you to be in pain. It is cruel and I do not care for cruelty. I took this land from a king who treated his subjects like dolls, to pose and play and then discard. He cut off the heads of all who displeased him. Much like your High King’s father.”

Merlin says nothing.

Jaffar chuckles, low and dark. “All who have magic are aware of King Uther. My Queen tells me it was your hand that ended his reign. You play the fool but in truth we are the same. I took the daughter, and you the son.”

Merlin breathes in sharply. He clenches his jaw, rather than reply.

“Or rather,” Jaffar continues, smiling now, “you refuse to take him. You should not feel guilt for the execution. It was a just deed.”

“He doesn’t want me,” Merlin hisses. He’s had enough. “It doesn’t matter because _he doesn’t want me_.”

“Then you will watch him from afar, consigning yourself to loneliness? Your pain will poison your soul. I fear what would become of the world, should your heart turn black. Already you suffer.”

“My magic has nothing to do with Arthur,” Merlin says, tightly. “I just have to find a way to control it.”

“You will not,” Jaffar says, with utter certainty. “Not without help, which you refuse to accept. You must trust me.”

Merlin laughs. “Trust you?”

“If we are to be friends, there must be trust. Is that not right?”

“Let us ease your burden, Emrys,” says the Queen, stepping out from the shadows. She must have followed them from the banquet, known what Jaffar intended. “Do not be afraid. We will keep you from harm.”

Merlin shakes his head, but his resistance is crumbling. “It’s not safe,” he says again.

“Hush,” she soothes, and kisses him. It so startles him that he freezes, and barely has time to resist as the two of them grab his arms and haul him through the door.

His body seizes as they cross the wards and the ambient magic of the room hits him. He nearly doubles over in pain as all the wildness inside him, all the tumultuous magics he’s absorbed, breaks free of his tenuous control and lashes through him like a hundred whips. He’s distantly aware of being carried forward, closer to the throbbing mass of power that emanates from the books.

“You must touch them,” Jaffar is saying, beneath the thunder in Merlin’s head. “Accept the ancient magic. Of your own free will, touch them!”

Merlin reaches out, and falls against the books, and his body goes white: with pleasure, with pain, with knowledge, with the magic of the earth. The _earth_ , the whole of it under his skin, so much bigger than he could ever have imagined. He feels as if he has been hung amongst the stars to spin slowly with the moon. He feels everything: the deep, unfathomable burn of molten rock, the breath of life from every plant and creature, the cold currents of the ocean and the sky. This, oh _this_.

This is the magic of the earth. This is what he is. He understands, finally. He _understands._

He lets go.

When he opens his eyes again, he feels indescribably small. A tiny bit of meat and bone in a cold, vast night. The stars are mere pinpricks, themselves cowed and dwarfed. It’s so _big_. He’s vaguely aware that he’s being held down, flat on his back on the rug, his meat and bones shaking under their hands. He’s keening, writhing in something that isn’t exactly pain, because pain is confined to the nerves, pain is a simple thing, not at all like being turned inside out and back again. 

He tries to focus on something. Light, flickering on the walls. Too bright for candles. Oil lamps? Slowly he realises it is himself, that his whole body is glowing golden, and not just his eyes. He is overflowing with powerful magic. It’s too much, far too much: he is a leaf in a whirlwind, a grain of sand tossed into the sea.

The hands are upon him now, moving and touching. He feels cold air on his skin. The press of mouths. The magic of another offering itself up to him, and his body taking it before he can stop it, because that’s all his body has done for months, take and take and fill itself with every scrap of magic until he could bear it no more. It was desperately trying to help him, to heal his sorrow, but nothing was enough, nothing helped.

The new magic does not hurt. It reminds him of Kilgharrah’s magic, the way the dragon would breathe a spell into him, to heal him or aid him. This spell is nothing like dragon magic but the intent is the same. It’s like a dive into a cool lake on a hot summer day, dragging the unbearable heat from his body, quenching and calming him.

Merlin tries to speak, but his body and mind are still trying to pull themselves back into coherence. 

“Hush now,” says the Queen, smiling at him. “Let us help.”

“Sex magic,” Jaffar purrs, his hands stroking down Merlin’s front, caressing his erection where it presses against the Queen’s naked thigh. “Very stabilising.”

“Please,” Merlin croaks. He could do with some stability. The skin against skin grounds him with every caress, and it’s been so long, so long since anyone touched him this way, since he allowed himself to be loved. 

He lets it happen. He wants to be something treasured, wants to be _wanted_. He’s subsumed himself to destiny, saved nothing for himself, because it was what he had to do and because he loved Arthur and loved Arthur’s Camelot, Arthur’s Albion. But Arthur has everything now, has all of Albion, has allies and knights and maybe not a traditional dynasty but certainly there are those who he trusts to take up his crown when the time comes.

Merlin had thought he could give forever. He had thought his heart was as limitless his magic, but he was wrong. He can’t give forever and get nothing in return. He wants to be loved before he dies, wants to be held close and not at arm’s length. He needs it, needs _this_. Warm bodies against him, embracing him. He needs to be touched, to be held, to be caressed. It hurts, but it’s nothing like pain.

There are hands on his cock, one large and strong, the other small and soft. He sees Jaffar and his Queen above him, kissing each other as their hands play on his flesh. 

“There you are,” says Jaffar, looking down at him with fondness. “Isn’t that better?”

“Yeah,” Merlin breathes. He’s still returning to himself, still reconnecting to his body, but he can feel their touch, feel his arousal. It feels good. Very good.

And then their hands are gone, and the Queen is above him, and _oh, oh_. He gasps as she sinks down onto him, as his cock is swallowed into her heat. 

_This is new_ , he thinks, distantly. He’d always wondered.

“This is a great honor,” Jaffar tells him, one hand on his Queen’s back, the other on Merlin’s belly. “You are only the second man to so enter her.” He smiles. “It is she who chose you, and who am I to deny my Queen?”

“I am not to be denied,” she tells him, a devious gleam in her eyes.

He wants to thrust up into her, to follow the pull of his pleasure, but his body is still distant from him, unwilling to respond. Fortunately, the Queen has no such problem, and moves above him like a dancer, her body lithe and swaying. She rises and falls upon him, her thighs flexing with strength. He tries to reach up, and his arm rises and flops down again.

“Do you want to touch me?” the Queen asks.

“Please,” Merlin breathes. 

The Queen shifts above him, and lowers herself down so that she is pressed full against him. His cock is still deep inside her as she ruts shallowly. Jaffar lifts Merlin’s arms and wraps them around her, and his fingers curl weakly against her back. They’re chanting under their breath, low words he can’t make out, but he feels the magic from it flicking his nerves into life, little by little. He can feel his toes again.

“It’s working,” he breathes, grateful. “I need more.”

“Greedy already,” Jaffar chuckles. “Hold him.”

The Queen wraps herself around Merlin, holding him tight as Jaffar turns them over. Merlin is little more than a dead weight over her, but she seems content to cradle him and squeeze around his cock. It’s Jaffar who acts, who runs his hands hungrily along Merlin’s back and thighs, and spreads the cheeks of his arse with his thumbs.

Merlin moans as Jaffar works a slick finger inside him. The finger crooks and tugs, toying with his hole, sending shocks of sensation up his spine. Merlin’s feet twitch at the ankle, and he presses back, eager for more. Jaffar obliges: the finger withdraws, only to be replaced by his tongue, slick and searching. Fingers press between his legs, and the spike of pleasure gives him back his hands. He tries to move his hips, and achieves a clumsy thrust, only to have Jaffar still him.

“Let me,” Jaffar says, firmly. 

Merlin relaxes into the Queen’s embrace and doesn’t struggle. He moans as Jaffar feasts upon his body, mouth and fingers hungry on him and inside him. He can feel Jaffar supping at his magic as he goes, but Merlin is overflowing and he doesn’t mind Jaffar taking his reward.

As more of his body returns to him, they turn him onto his side, and the Queen resumes her motions, this time with help from Merlin’s hips. Jaffar has several fingers curled inside of Merlin, rubbing and spreading, and he brings the other between their bodies, to rub at the join of them. It’s not long before the Queen is moaning openly, her motions quickened and stuttering, and she comes around him, clenching and gasping, her eyes glazed with pleasure.

She eases herself from his cock with a wet slide, and kisses him deeply.

“ _Merlin!_ ”

The Queen laughs and moves aside, and there in the doorway is Arthur, gaping with shock, and visibly torn between lust and fury. Merlin glares at Jaffar, who looks smug. He left the door ajar on purpose, no doubt.

“What have you done to him?” Arthur demands, reaching for his sword and clenching his hands into fists when he remembers it isn’t there. 

“What you would not,” Jaffar snaps back. “What manner of King are you, who does not care for the magic of his land?”

Arthur struggles for a reply. “Merlin isn’t--”

“He is magic,” Jaffar says, sternly, as if he didn’t still have his fingers up Merlin’s arse. “Has he not said that to you? Are you so proud of your ignorance that you would let him suffer?”

Arthur is taken aback, clearly not expecting to be the one being accused. He lunges forward, intending to grab Merlin and haul him away, but Jaffar stills him with a word. Arthur stares at them, unable to move, anger and shock and pain all frozen on his face.

“I can make him forget,” Jaffar offers to Merlin. “Whatever you wish. This will not affect our alliance.”

“I don’t want that,” Merlin says, and turns away, off of Jaffar’s hand and onto his knees. He’s wobbly but he can move, can stand. He’s back in one piece and better than he was before. He fits inside his skin again.

“Thank you,” he says to Jaffar and his Queen, and he goes to Arthur. Stands before him.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Merlin says, calmly. “Once I’m done I’m going to release the spell. You can do what you want after that, but first I need you to listen.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. 

“I love you,” he says. “You don’t have to love me back. I’ll love you anyway. I’ve loved you forever.” It feels even better than the magic, to say it at last, and the bruise in his chest eases. It’s as if the words have been the source of his pain all along, held so tightly inside of him they became an unbearable pressure.

He releases the spell, and Arthur lurches forward, steadies himself. He stares at Merlin, at a loss for words.

“I love you,” Merlin says again, reaching up and stroking Arthur’s sun-bleached hair. The golden light of his magic shimmers and dances along each pale thread, plays down to dance upon Arthur’s skin, and then beneath it. He wraps his arms around Arthur and before he can stop himself he’s pouring his magic into Arthur, pouring his love into him, wanting just this once, just this one time, for Arthur to know him. In a way beyond words, beyond language, down to the marrow of them both. It’s too much for anyone to bear, but he can’t help it, he’s yearned for this for so very long.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur moans, and his voice is so full of pain and want that Merlin has to look at his face. What he sees there shocks him, because he thought he couldn’t have it, thought he’d destroyed any chance of it long ago. He didn’t think he deserved to be loved.

Merlin kisses him, his whole body a long sigh against Arthur’s. Arthur’s lips taste of salt, and Arthur holds him back, arms so strong around him it hurts. Merlin welcomes it, wants it, wants the pain if he can have Arthur, too.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, voice tight with emotion. Their foreheads press together. “I thought I’d lost you. You’ve been so distant. I thought you were already gone and I was too late.”

“No,” Merlin says, tearing up himself. “I’m here.”

“It’s my fault,” Arthur continues, and Merlin realises that he’s held an equal pressure inside him, with all the things he couldn’t say. “I pushed you away, every time. After my father, after Gwen. I was selfish. And then... it was too late. I’d caused you such pain. I knew you wanted to go but I couldn’t let you.”

“I didn’t want to go,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “You stupid prat. I never wanted that.”

Arthur laughs, a pained sound, “Don’t go.”

Merlin kisses him, holding him back so fiercely. “I won’t let you.”

And then suddenly they’re away from the room, away from the secret library and the Shah and his Queen. They’re in Merlin’s room, and Merlin is pressing Arthur down onto his bed. He pulls at Arthur’s clothes, desperate to touch him, to press skin against skin. He still needs more, and he wants it to be Arthur who heals him, who becomes a part of him that he will never lose.

“I can’t believe I let you go with him,” Arthur growls, running his hands along Merlin’s body as if to wipe away every trace of Jaffar. His hands reach around to Merlin’s arse and one finger sinks inside him, and Arthur groans.

“Show me,” Merlin demands.

“I’ll show you,” Arthur promises. “ _Fuck._ Make sure you never forget...”

“Talk is cheap,” Merlin says, and laughs against Arthur’s neck. It feels so good to laugh, so good to touch. Feels so good to-- _Oh_.

Merlin _moans_. Arthur is hot inside him like a brand. It’s just right, the stretch and burn of him, the shape of him deep inside. Merlin clenches around him and loves the way it makes Arthur moan back. 

“We’re going to do this a lot,” Merlin promises.

“Gods, yes,” Arthur breathes, and pulls back and thrusts. He fucks Merlin hard, and it’s perfect and rough and Merlin wants to be sore from it in the morning, wants to feel it for days. His thighs ride high, his hands dig into Arthur’s hips, urging him on, harder, _faster_.

“No-- patience--” Arthur gasps.

“Waited too long,” Merlin snarls. “ _Touch me._ ”

Arthur obeys, faltering in his thrusts to grab at Merlin’s cock. He squeezes hard, making Merlin arch back and keen with lust, and then drags his fist back and forth in the slickness left by the Queen. Merlin drags his magic into Arthur again, joining them together so Arthur can feel him and he can feel Arthur, so they can know each other’s love and each other’s joy. 

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur sobs, lost inside him, driving hard.

And then they are. They _are_ , their bodies one as climax hits them both, the magic searing through them and making them whole. Merlin sobs and laughs and breathes great gulping breaths of air, and he knows, for the first time he knows and he understands.

 _The half cannot hate that which makes it whole._ Finally, finally, they are whole.

When it’s over, they lie in a tangled heap, curled together under a blanket. Merlin feels a deep contentment he recognises as happiness, and gives Arthur a sated nuzzle. Arthur brushes the damp hair from Merlin’s forehead, and kisses him.

“I love you,” Arthur says. There’s nothing between them now, no defenses, and Merlin is struck by how vulnerable Arthur looks. How underneath the strength of a High King is a boy who loves too much, whose heart bruises too easily. It makes Merlin fall in love with him all over again, and yearn to protect him from the world, even though he’s already spent his life doing just that. 

“I’m sorry I never told you,” Arthur continues. “I was such a coward.”

“You can make it up to me,” Merlin says, giving him a teasing squirm.

“I will,” Arthur says, soberly.

“We both will,” Merlin says, and kisses him until Arthur is smiling, too. He feels gloriously sore, but thinks he’ll be up for more if they nap first. Slower this round, so he can take his time. He wants to relearn Arthur’s body, know the taste of him, the scent of him when he’s aroused. Know the feel of him when his body is flushed with want and sweat. They’re going to do _everything_.

His intent must show on his face, because Arthur chuckles at him. “You’re going to be utterly insatiable now.”

“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you,” Merlin promises.

“I’ll take you apart with less than one blow,” Arthur says, wickedly.

“Come on, then,” Merlin challenges, and maybe they don’t need that nap after all.

§

They finally stagger out of bed around midday. They’re both a bit embarrassed by their outbursts in the library, not to mention their abrupt departure. But Jaffar is an understanding host and has had food sent to their room with a note that says, simply, _For my honored guests._ They blush but feed each other fruit until they’re full, and then stumble to the baths like giggling teenagers instead of grown men, unable to keep their hands off each other. Merlin shows Arthur a new use for his breathing spell, and Arthur takes advantage of the perfumed creams until they’re both pliant and boneless.

Eventually, duty calls. Arthur and Jaffar work out a very nice trade agreement that’s lopsided in Albion’s favor. The Silk Road is far too slow, so Jaffar and Merlin will arrange the transportation between the two cities.

“Does that mean you’re going to let me take us back instead of dragging me across half the earth again?” Merlin asks, eagerly.

“As long as you promise we’re not going to end up half-stuck in a wall somewhere.” Arthur tries to be grumpy but can’t, and smiles.

Merlin smiles back, or rather smiles wider, since he’s been grinning practically nonstop all day.

“It’s ah, been an interesting visit,” Merlin says to the Queen, as they make their goodbyes.

“You will return to us, yes?” she asks, hopeful.

“Oh, absolutely. For the library.” Merlin ducks his head, and looks sideways at Arthur, who steps closer and puts a proprietary hand on Merlin’s back.

“For the library,” Arthur confirms. But he nods his head in respect. “Thank you for helping him.”

“You are most welcome,” she says, bowing her head in return. 

“Take good care of him,” Jaffar says, his piercing eyes too knowing. “Or I will visit your fair lands and take care of him myself.”

Merlin blushes hard, quite unused to being fought over. “Yes, well. I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Excellent,” says Jaffar, all smiles again. “You have everything you need?”

“Everything,” Arthur says, and Merlin doesn’t miss the possessive squeeze of his hand. He doesn’t mind it, either. “Thank you for your generous gifts. They will help Camelot through the long winter ahead.”

“It is my honor,” Jaffar replies, and bows. “Arthur. Merlin. Until your next visit.”

“Until then,” Merlin says.

He closes his eyes and thinks of the courtyard of Camelot, the stones long cleansed of ash and blood. The castle is a place of peace now, her strong walls extending far beyond their physical limits to hold all of Albion in her heart. And that is where they belong, where he belongs, there at her heart with his King. He feels for an empty space inside her and stretches it out, pushing aside any obstructions. He takes the space around their retinue and supplies and slides it neatly into the emptied space, and in a blink the palace is gone, and they are home.

There are chickens _everywhere_. Arthur laughs and laughs.

“How was I supposed to know someone left a coop here?” Merlin pouts, and bats a startled chicken from his shoulder.

Arthur wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes and brushes himself off. He goes to Merlin and plucks a feather from his hair, and blows it away.

“What did you wish for, then?” Merlin asks him.

“Nothing,” Arthur says, leaning in. “I have everything I need.”

And the High King of all Albion kisses Merlin. Right there in the courtyard, with everyone watching, and a ring of very startled chickens making a racket around them. It’s good to be home.

**Author's Note:**

> Vague medieval chronology handwaving. AU divergence with both source canons, S4 divergent for Merlin. If you are unfamiliar with the film, I recommend viewing it on YouTube. No knowledge of the film is required for the story, especially since my use of it is massively AU anyway.
> 
> Jaffar and the Princess  
> http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Veidt/jaffarprincessbw.jpg
> 
> The Thief of Bagdad (1940)  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLc_2Sqrt8U
> 
> The title is from Yeats' poem [Sailing To Byzantium](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20310).


End file.
